Blacked Out Calendar Days
by Kaia Papaya
Summary: Everyone has days on which something bad happened in the past, especially at the CBI. How Jane deals with those days is up to him, though he overhears a gem of advice from Van Pelt to Lisbon. Possible future Jane/Lisbon, but no fluff yet. One-Shot.


**A/N: This is a one-shot that popped into my head a few days ago. It's not exactly the cannon universe, but the image just popped into my head. I think Van Pelt would be the one to say something like this and then flee. Despite my best efforts, I do not own The Mentalist, and I'm making no money from this.**

Everybody in the CBI knew what blacked-out-calendar-days were, or at least they got the general idea. Every person in the bureau probably kept a list of very important ones to the people around them. Lisbon kept track of her team, just as they looked out for each other and her. Perhaps it was slightly different from person to person, but almost everyone was aware that there were some days you just didn't mess with.

Jane, for instance, had a respected cycle that he had kept for the two years he had been working with the CBI. For three days, and only three days, of every year, Patrick Jane did nothing but devote time to himself. It wasn't exactly time spent on himself, but time that he took away from the team so that they wouldn't see him collapse in tears. His wedding anniversary was one of those days, as was his daughter's birthday. The final day he avoided all contact with humanity was the day both of them were killed. He never said a word about it, but nobody _really_ needed to ask.

Perhaps it was a pity party. Perhaps it was the one time he wouldn't be able to pull off 'mentally stable and relatively well adjusted'. He knew that he wouldn't be able to face anyone on the team without them knowing exactly what was wrong. Lisbon had a few of those days. The day her mother died was the major one, and there were a few he didn't want to ask the reasons for. She didn't take off of work then (nothing would cause her to take off work, unless it was a physical impairment that made it _literally_ impossible to work) but she did tend to barricade herself in her office. Even Jane knew to keep a lid on it on these days.

Cho had the day his father left. If Van Pelt had any days, Jane had yet to notice them. She hadn't been with the team for a full year though, so there was still time. Jane suspected she did though, because of something he overheard in the bullpen one afternoon. It was the day Lisbon's mother died, and everyone knew what was coming. Nobody was stupid enough to mention it though, except the rookie.

"Look, boss," she said quietly enough for Rigsby and Cho to miss it. Jane, who was feigning sleep on the couch could hear it well though. "I know what today is for you, and I know how it feels. The way I get through it is to remember all the good things about her life. All the things that made you and her happy together, and to make sure to do one of them, or more. I know it sounds pointless, but it's always helped me."

She nodded after that and walked away, realizing that this wasn't a subject Lisbon was willing to discuss. She couldn't just let the woman she respected above all others just be miserable though, and would offer what she could.

Jane mentally scoffed at the suggestion, but didn't move a muscle. He wasn't about to alert Lisbon to the fact that he wasn't actually asleep. He did want to help her, but really hadn't gotten to the point where he could comfort anyone without needing comfort himself, and he refused to drop that burden on Lisbon, especially today. She did look a bit more perked up that afternoon though, and the next day she was back to being standard Lisbon, rather than sleepless-and-almost-hung-over looking Lisbon who had just come home from a war, as she had last year and the year before that.

Jane was still skeptical though, and he let the memory lapse from his mind.

Come to his daughter's birthday, a month later, and Jane was in a terrible state. He didn't show up at the headquarters that morning, but had told them he wasn't able to make it in that day, ensuring that he wouldn't be bothered. Instead, he sat aimlessly in his home, running through all the scenarios that may have been different, cursing himself over and over.

However, after an hour of self-loathing and self-pity, he decided to at least try Van-Pelt's advice. It couldn't get much worse than this.

He dressed casually for the first time in months, perhaps years. Jeans. He had to open a drawer that he hadn't opened since his wife's death. That alone caused him to stop and think, but he wasn't set back for long. Soon, he got into his small, silver car and started to drive. He concentrated on his daughter, and what made her happy. She had loved animals. Wanted to help them, and eventually he found himself out at the zoo.

Jane decided just to walk and look at the animals, at first, but after a few minutes, it just felt wrong. She had liked the zoo, but he didn't think he would ever be able to endure a zoo without some sort of company. So he got back in his car. Animals. Where could he help animals? Finally, his mind settled on the local shelter.

He was pondering his day later that evening. It wasn't easy, helping those people, he decided. It had taken every ounce of his charm and his self-effacing pity.

_"Sir, I'm sorry. You really need to attend one of our Volunteer Orientations," the receptionist said for the second time. He heard her, but what she didn't understand was that he wouldn't take no for an answer._

_"Please," he said quietly, "just let me explain. I hope it will help you understand why I'm asking this." He waited for her hesitant nod, before beginning quietly. This time, he decided, the truth was probably the best. Perhaps not the _whole_ truth though._

_"Today would be my daughter's birthday," he started, and her attention was immediately caught on the 'would be'. "She loved animals. Would care for any of them. My wife and I, we" he broke off here, looking down. After he took a deep breath and forced back not entirely fake tears, he continued, "She died, and at a suggestion from a friend to both help me and honor her, I'm trying to do something that she believed in."_

_Of course the receptionist was nearly crying. He hadn't even needed to resort to hypnosis this time._

_They had immediately let him help out for the rest of the day. It was rather dirty work, but he did like animals. If anyone who knew him asked, he would deny it immediately, but just like children, he had a soft spot for their innocent faces._

However, at the end of that day, Jane had felt refreshed. He really would have to leave a nice surprise for Van Pelt. This was the first time he had truly thought about his daughter without breaking down. Three years of intense counseling, and Van Pelt's ridiculous suggestion made a world of a difference. Who would have known?

Perhaps he would go surfing on his wedding anniversary. His wife had always loved that.

* * *

It was late July in California, and the weather was painfully hot. Jane walked outside in just jeans and a button down shirt. They were dress jeans, but jeans none the less. It was a step in the right direction. His wife's face played across his memory, laughing and dancing in her swimsuit.

_She was holding a surfboard under her arm, and just giggled at him. It was their honeymoon in Hawaii. Suddenly, she turned and ran to the ocean, with him hot on her heels._

Jane snapped out of the memory, fierce joy in the front of his mind. He was slightly disbelieving that he was about to go surfing for the first time in years, but it felt like the right thing to do. Of course the team could never find out about this. Cho would never let him live it down.

After he had gotten the board and his swimming gear secured, he settled down for the two hour drive to the beach with only his memories for company.

Doran Beach had been his wife's favorite place. Patrick had always preferred Drake's Beach, or Santa Cruz, but this day was about her. He arrived around lunchtime, and could see people of all ages ranging across the beach. Surfers, families, even people just there camping and looking at the scenery. He felt a pang of loss, and for a moment doubted what he was about to do. However, when he turned to get back into the car, he realized how much he had missed just surfing to let go. He hadn't been since his wife had died, but it used to be what released his stresses.

After a deep breath and a quick change into swimwear, he faced the ocean. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and if he remembered correctly, it was also stunningly cold, even in July. Though Jane was a strong swimmer six years ago, he was undoubtedly out of shape now, so perhaps he'll have to keep this short.

Three hours later and Jane was nearly collapsing. He was out of breath, and sore, and unable to do much more than slump on the beach. After as much surfing as he could handle, he had not only built a sandcastle, but a sand army to go with it. It had been rejuvenating and something he would have to repeat.

Though perhaps some more swimming in the mean time was called for. Only able to surf for an hour was downright pitiful. His wife would be mocking him right now. Jane smiled at the thought.

* * *

The night after his surfing adventure, Jane slept deeply. It was the first time in months, and he didn't realize why until he exercised again.

At first, the exercise had only been cleansing. Jane had relished in some of his first dreamless sleep since his wife died. That was the first thing that drove him to really exercise. The healthy sleep let him think more clearly. He noticed more things around him, and got the job done more effectively. It was a relief.

He started to exercise more regularly: swimming, weights, running. His exhausted body fell into bed every night and woke up every morning without screaming or tears or mental anguish. It became a ritual. If he had a difficult day, or couldn't get his family out of his mind, he would exercise until he could barely walk. Perhaps he was trading one obsession for another, but nobody would deny that this was slightly more healthy.

Nobody but him had to deal with Red John, so he would not subject anyone else to this. He continued his ritual for the next few months, and then one day he realized that he felt better than he had in years.

He had a spring in his step, and it was a beautiful morning. Perhaps it was cold and slightly damp, but it was undeniably nice outside. He arrived in the CBI headquarters in unusually good spirits. The case they had was an interesting one. He was sure the sister was either the culprit or accomplice, but he would have to charm it out of her since she wasn't talking.

Jane stopped in shock when that though passed through his head. Perhaps Van Pelt deserved more credit than she received. He knew Lisbon had looked better after taking her advice, and it had helped Jane more than he realized.

He shrugged and got down to work.

* * *

Two hours later:

Rigsby and Cho stared disbelievingly at Jane as they watched him work. He had vaguely told them that he was going to be trying something new, and not to be alarmed if he was a bit out of character, but this was unbelievable. Cho recalled a conversation they had previously when he had confidently stated that he would be able to seduce almost any woman anywhere. At the time, they hadn't believed that their joker of a consultant would be capable of seduction, and the bet they had turned out to be a bust when the woman they chose was the murderer. Apparently they had been wrong about Jane though. _Very_ wrong. Rigsby looked like he was considering taking notes. Cho just looked thoughtful.

Jane was sitting beside the sister of the deceased as they talked on her couch, and the woman was leaning towards him unconsciously, her attraction almost visible.

What wasn't visible was the tension in Jane's shoulders. The woman wasn't nearly as beautiful as his wife, and she obviously couldn't hold a candle to Lisbon. Now he just wanted to get this over with.

He made it back to Rigsby and Jane an hour later, with three more suspects and a lot on his mind. He was cursing Lisbon mentally for instilling in him some semblance of a conscience. Or perhaps it was just that he was feeling slightly guilty about his wife. He hadn't been thinking of her as much as usual, and perhaps it was healthier for him, but he didn't _want_ to forget them. He _deserved_ that pain, as he was the one who lived. And if he couldn't die in their place, he sure as hell would take Red John down with them.

But then he remembered talking to Lisbon about that very thing, wondering if he would be able to kill Red John. He was able to kill Hardy, but he had a gun pointed at Lisbon. He wasn't about to see another woman he cared about get hurt. Perhaps he would be able to settle for something legal, like waiting until Red John had someone at gunpoint before killing him. He really didn't think that would be a good idea though. Too many risks, unless it was someone he didn't care in the least about.

But that was for pondering another day. He saw that Rigsby and Cho were still looking at him.

"She was involved heavily in what appears to be a racketeering scheme," he told them. "David Morrison, Calum Hightower and Lorraine Albrecht are all possibly involved. She gave them to me without realizing she was ratting on her friends. I'd look into them as well. Gentlemen," he nodded to them as he started to walk off.

_Why the hell do I keep comparing women to Lisbon? _Jane asked himself. He decided that perhaps a long run was needed that night. "Jane," Cho called from behind him, "how the hell do you do that?" He decided to answer as they continued walking out of the house and over to the car.

"Well," he said, smirking, "the trick is to figure out what personality type each woman looks for in a man and emulate it. Some respond well to being ignored. Some like to be pampered. Some respect intelligence. Some like jerks."

"How do you know what they want?" Cho asked, looking rather like a skeptical wooden plank (Which wasn't much of a difference from his standard wooden plank expression).

"Well, there are a few basic tells, but most of it comes down to intuition. The difficult part is _becoming_ exactly what they want."

"That sounds like a lot more trouble than it's worth," Rigsby muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I, if I do say so myself," he looked between the two men, "am very good at reading people, especially women. Almost all women like confidence. Watch out for those who don't, they can get nasty." Jane sighed, and wandered away from the two of them, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he whistled. "Oh, Rigsby," he called back over his shoulder, "don't worry about seducing Van Pelt. If you act like yourself you'll be just fine with her. _You _are lucky that you're her type... naturally." He got into the back of the SUV, not needing to look over his shoulder to see the Rigsby had momentarily paused walking, a goofy grin on his face.

* * *

Despite his progress, February rolled around with a looming presence. Jane _hated_ February. Perhaps this one was a particularly nasty one, but he didn't think so.

On his final fateful anniversary, Jane woke up after a nightmare in a simmering rage. He dressed impeccably, and left his house. He attempted as many distractions as he could thing of, but eventually it became apparent that the things which had worked on his daughter's birthday and his wedding anniversary weren't going to work today.

There was nothing that he could do that would make today any different than it had been the past six years. He had tried everything, from walking on the beach to sitting by himself, to sobbing on his bed, under the gruesome smile, now a rust brown.

Nothing could possibly make this day any less painful. A murderous rage still sliced through his heart whenever he thought of Red John. That man had taken Patrick Jane's entire life. He had stolen his happiness and left him an empty husk of a man, and he would die for it, eventually.

Perhaps one day when Red John was no longer in the land of the living, this feeling would abate, but now it would simmer quietly behind the rest of his emotions, a spring ready to uncoil. If it only came out once every year, unbidden, rising to the surface of his emotions and thrusting everything else out of the way, he would accept that. His rage would simmer at the thought of Red John, but he was now able to think of his wife and daughter with love, rather than sorrow. Remember them with happiness, rather than weeping.

Perhaps one day, he would be able to live again, but not until Red John was dead.

**A/N: So what do you think? It's definitely a one-shot, but I might add a few more one-shots in the same universe. Questions? Comments? You know what to do. ~Kaia**


End file.
